


when we all fall asleep

by to_the_stars_who_listen



Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger
Genre: #im sorry this is so angsty, Gen, bronte also has nightmares, bronte helps keefe stop panicking bc his son is having nightmares, keefe has nightmares, my inner angst monster came out and i gave it free reign, oh yeah bronte totally adopts keefe, tw for major character death (not real), tw for ptsd, tw nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22585651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/to_the_stars_who_listen/pseuds/to_the_stars_who_listen
Summary: Keefe has been through hell and back, but nothing will ever be as terrifying to him as Sophie in pain.
Relationships: Councillor Bronte & Keefe Sencen, Sophie Foster/Keefe Sencen
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	when we all fall asleep

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. This is pretty much pure angst with mayyybe a tiny bit of fluff at the end. I have no excuse.

Keefe rolled over for the twenty-third time that night, staring out his enormous window at Eternalia. This late, there were only a few lights on, glittering in a sea of darkness and reflecting from jeweled walls. The soft silver glow of the stars mingled with the golden light from the windows and created a landscape that seemed half a dream. It was the kind of beauty that you only got to see if you stayed awake very late or got up very, very early.

He wished he could share it with Sophie.

He really just wished she was there. It was so much harder to sleep when no one was there to remind him the nightmares weren’t real. He had woken up screaming enough times to know what awaited him in his unconscious — fire and blood and pain.

He couldn’t ask that of her. She needed to rest, to let herself stop worrying for a few hours. Keefe wouldn’t, couldn’t, forgive himself if he put more on her plate.

That didn’t change the fact that he wanted her beside him.

Keefe rubbed his eyes and shoved the blankets off of him, suddenly too hot, smothering. He kicked his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, padding over to the enormous storage cabinet that he kept his art supplies and sketchbooks in, blindly reaching out and grabbing the paints and brushes and a canvas.

If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well be productive.

He set the paints and easel up next to the windows, being as quiet as possible so as not to wake Bronte. His father — Cassius — had always hated being woken up by Keefe’s pacing. He had a feeling that Bronte wouldn’t mind as much, but habits were hard to break.

Keefe took a deep breath, pulling a memory of Sophie to the front of his mind — laughing, happy, relaxed. He mixed the colors he needed and started painting, creating the familiar outlines of her face and the shape of her eyes with a few strokes. He let his mind drift while his eyes stayed focused on the canvas, copying what was in his head onto the canvas almost effortlessly.

It was a mistake.

_Keefe wandered through the empty halls of Foxfire, calling Sophie’s name. Halls stretched out for what seemed like miles and warped into strange configurations — emerald mixing with ruby mixing with pale, glittering white. He wandered for hours, or maybe it was seconds, until he reached the courtyard and saw Sophie— the only other person in this strange yet familiar building. “Foster! There you are!”_

_Sophie turned toward him slowly, and he sucked in a breath. She was dripping in blood — her blood — from so many cuts and slashes and burns. “Keefe?” she gasped, falling to the ground and hitting with a dull thud that echoed in his bones._

_Keefe sprinted over to her. “Sophie, Sophie, what happened, who did this to you, let me see, let me fix this, please, Sophie.”_

_Sophie just smiled at him, eerie on her blood-soaked face. “It doesn’t matter. I need to tell you something before —” she coughed, blood trickling from her nose and mouth._

_Keefe felt his tears streaming down his face. “What? What is it?” He leaned closer, trying to catch her words before they faded forever._

_She grinned again, using the last of her strength to lift herself closer to him. “I never cared about you, not for even one second. You never mattered to me. You — are — nothing.” Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fell limp._

_Dead._

_And he was screaming —_

and screaming, and screaming, and scrambling back to press his back against the wall, because she was dead and the world was ending and she hadn’t cared, and he hadn’t meant anything to her, and he didn’t matter at all, and —

“KEEFE! KEEFE, OPEN THE DOOR!”

He could hear Bronte banging on the door, begging him to open it, but all he could think, all he could do, was _what if it’s true what if she doesn’t care and I don’t matter and no one could care less if I live or die and she doesn’t care and —_

Bronte’s arms were around him, holding him. “Deep breaths. In — out. Good.”

Keefe let out a broken sob. “I — I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up, I just — I fell asleep, and I — she —” He closed his eyes, fighting back the tears. “I’m sorry. You — you can go. I’ll be — I’ll be fine.”

Bronte sighed. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay.”

“Wh — what? But why? I’m not — I —” He took another deep, shuddering breath. “I just had a nightmare. I’m — I’m okay. Sorta.”

Bronte held him tighter. “No, you’re not. You’re not okay. I wish — I wish I could help you.” He sighed again, letting his head fall. “Can you talk about it?”

“I — maybe. I don’t know. Not without crying.”

“You should try. I personally don’t care if you cry.”

Keefe curled in on himself. “Okay. I’ll — I’ll try.” He sucked in a deep, spreading breath. “I was looking for Sophie,” he whispered shakily. When I — when I found her, she was covered in — in blood. Before — before she died, she told me that she didn’t — she didn’t care about me, that I was nothing and no one and couldn’t care less about me and it was right, it was so right, I don’t — don’t matter, I shouldn’t, I’m not — I don’t deserve her. I don’t — I don’t deserve you either — when will you all realize that I’m not worth caring about?” His voice cracked, and he sobbed, tears pouring down his face.

“Keefe,” Bronte whispered. “I care about you. Sophie cares about you. Fitz cares about you. You’re worth it. I promise. And I do not make promises lightly.”

Keefe sniffled. “I — yeah. It’s … so hard. It’s so hard to believe that people actually care about me. I never — I never had that before.”

Bronte scowled. “Your father is a terrible person.”

Keefe laughed bitterly. “I know. But —“ he shot Bronte a small, shaky smile. “My dad is amazing.”

Bronte snorted. “Thanks.” He leaned his head on Keefe’s, and Keefe let himself sinks into the embrace, relaxing just enough to begin to drift off. He jerked upward, panicked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “No, I can’t, I can’t go to sleep, I’ll dream again. I just — I can’t.”

Bronte sighed. “I understand. I’m sorry it’s like this — I can have Elwin get you a sedative that keeps you from dreaming later if you’d like. For now, all I can offer you is my company.”

Keefe nodded slowly. “That would be nice. I don’t think — I don’t want to be alone,” he admitted quietly.

Bronte offered him a small smile.

“You don’t have to be.”


End file.
